


28 degrees Fahrenheit, light winds and heavy snow

by reckingstacks



Category: NeoScum (Podcast)
Genre: Christmas, Extended Scumverse, Found Family, Gen, Recovery, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:22:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22655449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reckingstacks/pseuds/reckingstacks
Summary: Your name is Aubrey Still and you have no idea how to act at family gatherings.(or: Aubrey experiences Christmas for the first time, confronts some tough feelings, and has fun.)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4
Collections: Transitverse





	28 degrees Fahrenheit, light winds and heavy snow

**Author's Note:**

> Well this was supposed to be out... at Christmas... I really beefed that one but I'm glad I took my time with it in the end because I was concerned that it wouldn't be as good if I rushed it. I didn't intend for it to get this long and I didn't intend to do as many illustrations for it as I did but I had some shots in my head that were just so vivid I really felt like I just had to get them down. There's some tastey Aubrey exposition in here owing to the length of it too so... enjoy
> 
> Soundtrack: [Low Poly Fallow - June LaLonde](https://junelalonde.bandcamp.com/track/low-poly-fallow)

"Are you doing anything for the holidays?"

You freeze on the spot. You've been waiting for this. It was only so long until someone asked, and you have to face the fact that you're spending your first _truly_ free holiday season alone.

"No," you answer, dryly, and you _intend_ to leave it at that, resuming the task of lacing your boots without making eye contact with Iloya. Unfortunately, from the corner of your eye, you can see them cock their head at you.

"You should come home with me for Christmas, then. You know, if you _do_ Christmas. It's fine, if you don't. I don't know what you do. If you do anything at all." They pause for a moment, and you're too busy trying to process the offer to speak, which they take as a cue to continue. "If you'd rather just avoid the whole season..."

"No! No, no. It's, um--" You're still lost for words, trying to separate the mixed feelings currently duking it out in your head. "I don't--I mean, I don't _practice_ anything, but it's not that. I just--I haven't really... had anyone. To do anything with."

"You didn't do anything with your family?"

The words sting more than you hope your blank expression lets on.

"No."

"Well, all the more reason for you to come and visit mine, then." Iloya steps over and claps you on the shoulder with one hand, finally forcing your attention back to their face; a smile is plastered across it, and there's a twinkle in their eye, the kind you've come to learn means that they have their mind set on something and won't stop until they get it.

“I...”

"Come on! It'll be fun, I promise. We bring guests all the time. You'll fit right in."

There’s gonna be people. _So many_ people. They don’t know you and you don’t know them and you don’t know how they’re going to react to you being… you. But you used to _dream_ about this. Celebrating holidays. Celebrating _anything_. Being part of a normal family. And here it is: the perfect window into that world, presented to you by one of the only people you’ve ever deemed even _remotely_ trustworthy.

You just want to know what it’s like.

A feeling of longing tugs at your heart, anxiety coils in your stomach, and you know there’s only one answer.

"Okay. Yeah. I can come with you, if you’re sure--”

“Of course I’m _sure!_ ” Iloya claps their hands together in glee. “I’ll give you the dates, so you can put your leave request in. I’ll pick you up--it’s a couple hours’ drive to my parents’ house.”

“Wait, am I supposed to bring, like--y’know, gifts or something?”

“Oh, God, no, don’t worry.” They almost laugh. “There’s so many of us, and you don’t know anyone. You don’t have to bring any gifts.” Thank _God,_ because you barely know how to pick gifts for the people you see on a daily basis. “I’d say bring food, if you want, but I don’t think we’ll need more of that. Just bring yourself, and whatever you need to pack to stay for a few days.” Iloya flashes you a grin. “You’ll love it. I promise.”

When you look down at your shoe, you find you’ve tied the laces into an incomprehensible knot. You sigh, set to work unravelling it, and hope that that promise holds up.

***

One month later, you're tapping your fingers against your old duffel bag as the elevator descends through your apartment building.

Ice cold air and bright, white snow greet you as you exit the building; Iloya is, as promised, already waiting for you, and they wave excitedly as you make your way over to the car idling in the centre of the parking lot.

“Hey!” A blast of heat hits you as you wrench the passenger side door open and slide into the seat. “Just toss your bag in the back, there," Iloya instructs, and you do, careful not to smash the box of decorated cookies they’ve got jammed into the storage compartment of the centre console.

"Yeah, mind those. Feel free to help yourse-- Oh my God, _no,_ you don’t get to taste them!" They sigh, with a look of genuine disappointment on their face as they kick the car into gear and pull out onto the road. "Well, I guess you can still have some, if you want them. There’s some other snacks and some sodas in the back. And if you don’t want those--” (you don’t; carbonation is that much worse when they’re all probably warm by now) “--we'll get you a drink when we get there. A _hard_ drink." They shoot you a sly smile and a wink. "None of us will tell."

“I don’t drink.”

“Oh.” Iloya seems genuinely surprised, for a moment. _Because you were a street kid._ Because people with backgrounds like yours are always drinkers, right? “Well, that’s fine, too. There’s going to be plenty on offer. They really do stock the place up. There’s probably enough there to see them through the whole winter.”

You simply smile and nod. Inside, you’re busy frantically racking up the pros and cons of this trip and trying to decide if you’ve made a mistake or not. Strangers: not great. Booze: bad. Completely alien social scenario that you have no idea how to behave in or way to escape from: unfathomable, potentially disastrous. Your fingers curl tighter around the hems of your sleeves. This could go so, so bad so, so fast, and you don’t want to fuck it up--this, this thing you’ve been _desperate_ for your whole life, this thing you have one shot at, because if you say something awful or lash out then they’re never going to want you back--

“Are you okay?”

You whip your head around to look at Iloya and only now realise you’re practically panting. It’s warm in here. Too warm.

“Yeah. I just… need to get this off.” You unclip your seatbelt for a moment to shed your coat--and it _does_ feel better--dumping it in the back seat with your bag. Iloya watches you from the corner of their eye the whole time.

“Aubrey,” they say, softly, after a minute, in that tone of voice that makes you cringe, because you know they’ve clocked you, and you can’t worm your way out. “Try not to be nervous about this, okay? I know, yes, there’s going to be a lot going on, but you can step out if you need to. Nobody will judge you for that.”

You can’t bring yourself to make eye contact. The loose thread on the hem of your shirt is far more interesting.

“Aubrey?”

“What if they don’t want me there?” You lift your head, but look straight ahead. In the pause that follows, nausea finds a home in your stomach. “If I say something, or I do something, and it ruins everything--”

“Aubrey, baby, no. You won’t.” But you might. “Things happen, they’ll understand if you have… problems, you know. It’s not going to _ruin_ anything. What are we going to do, turf you out onto the street?” That’s precisely what you were worried about, but Iloya… _laughs_ at the idea, and it suddenly seems so stupid. “You’re going to be totally fine. _Of course_ we want you there. You don’t have to worry.”

“Okay.” You heave a sigh as you sink down in your seat slightly and let your head loll against the window, watching the neon-smeared grey and white of the city fall away around you.

“Listen, other people have done far worse things than anything you might do.” They’re wrong. So wrong. You don’t tell them as much. Iloya swipes up another cookie and is only halfway through a mouthful before continuing. “One of my uncles tried to start a brawl, once, on purpose, with my cousin’s boyfriend, over a card game. I mean, throwing punches and everything, you know. Another of my cousins set the tree on fire, one year. You’re not going to drink yourself stupid, or start slinging fireballs around, or _both,_ so we don’t have to worry about that happening again.”

Okay. That gets you. You laugh, if kind of half-heartedly.

“Yeah. No fireballs, I promise.”

“So that’s at least two things that are worse than you snapping at someone by accident, you know.” Well, they’re _kind of_ right. You don’t have an argument that doesn’t make you sound more fucked up than you ever want anyone to know you are, so you don’t bite back.

“Okay. Yeah. Sure.” You sigh again and scrub at your face with your hands. “But, I mean--you can explain to them, right? If I…”

“Of _course._ I’ve got you.” They take their eyes off the road for a moment to look at you and smile with a warmth that rivals the car’s heating system. “Chill out, okay? This is supposed to be a _holiday._ It’s going to be fine.”

You lay your head back against the window and try to convince yourself that they’re right.

***

The drive is largely uneventful. Iloya treats you to a few more fun family anecdotes and a selection of seasonal tunes that you know half of the lyrics to by pure osmosis, having been bombarded by them since the second it turned December 1st. You cheer up and largely forget to worry for the rest of the journey.

The house you pull up to two hours later is fairly big--bigger than the high-rise apartments and tightly-packed units you usually see outside of work, these days, at least--and decked out in swathes of twinkling lights and garlands. The driveway is almost full, and Iloya's parking manoeuvre doesn’t leave much room for you to squeeze out of the passenger-side door.

"Sorry," they say, as you attempt to open the back door to retrieve your coat and bag _without_ scuffing the adjacent car. "But the neighbours get cranky if we start parking on the street."

You can’t tell if it’s fear or excitement making your pulse race as you wind your way through the six other cars already parked up. Is it both? It’s both. You can hear voices even from out here; you catch a glimpse, through the bay window on the far side of the house, into a living room already full of guests.

Iloya barely has time to punch the buzzer before you see a shape moving behind the frosted glass window set into the door; it opens to reveal a short woman (blonde, elf-- _half_ -elf, maybe--small, sharp features matching Iloya’s), who practically throws herself onto Iloya on sight.

"Hi, baby!" It's a miracle she doesn't spill the contents of the glass she has one hand around, while she drapes her other arm around Iloya's shoulders and ushers them into the house. "Come in, come in. And you must be Aubrey!" She swings around to face you, beaming away, and you bristle for the impending over-eager hug that doesn't come--fortunately, she settles for a pat on the arm. "I’m Julia. I’m Iloya’s mom. Come on, close that door, it's cold out there. Drinks?"

"You have that pear cider?" Iloya is already dumping their case down by the staircase, and you follow suit, dropping your bag beside it and trailing them to the kitchen.

"I stocked up, just for you." Julia laughs; she's already picking a bottle out from the impressive collection stacked up in the fridge. "Aubrey, what about you? We've got this, we've got beer, wine--red or white, take your pick--"

"Mom, she--"

"It doesn't matter if you're not old enough." Iloya’s attempt at rescuing you is swept aside; she looks back and winks at you. "What do you want, honey?"

"I don't drink," you answer, flatly.

"Oh, come on, it's okay. We won’t call the cops on you, I promise."

_"I don't drink."_

"That's fine," Iloya interjects--successfully, this time. "We have something without alcohol, yes?"

"Sure, if you don't want to _drink_ drink. We've got some hot cider on the go, we've got eggnog, we've got regular sodas..."

"Hot cider is fine." That's safe. You know where you are with regular cider. 

"Coming right up." Julia pops the cap off the bottle in her hand and slides it across the kitchen island to Iloya, then plucks a glass from an array laid out on the countertop and fills it with a ladle from what is apparently an entire crockpot full of the stuff. "Here you go. If you want a top-up, feel free to help yourself. We’ve got plenty.”

"Thanks." You smile, and it... feels natural. Okay. This isn't so bad. A little intense, but not terrible. The cider is as bland as ever, but the smell has become familiar over the past few weeks, and provides a welcome comfort here. You try not to think about the loud conversation that you can hear from all the way down the hall as you tentatively sip at it. You make brief eye contact with Iloya, and they give you a _look._

"I think we should get our bags upstairs before we join the party." Iloya straightens up and motions for you to follow them.

"Okay, but don't spend too long up there. You’re late! People want to see you!" Julia ushers you both out of the kitchen, and, drinks still in hand, you grab your respective bags and lug them upstairs to the small room that Iloya leads you to. Despite presumably being empty before your arrival, it hasn't been spared the festive treatment; garlands hang from the ceiling, tinsel coils around the frames of the two beds pressed against the walls, and it all shimmers in the glow of coloured fairy lights strung around the door and window frames. Iloya takes first pick of the beds and you sit on the other, dropping your bag without bothering to open it.

"Sorry about my mom." You don't realise you've been staring into your cider until Iloya speaks and grabs your attention. Their case is open, and they're pulling out the charging pad for their comm. "She doesn't mean to be pushy, or anything, you know. She really did just think it's because of your age." Pause. "How come you don’t drink, anyway?"

"Just... reasons." You look away again. You saw too many people make stupid mistakes, have things slipped into their drinks, spiral into the depths of alcoholism during your years bouncing between gang circles. You swore that would never be you. But you hardly have the emotional capacity to explain that shit right now. For a moment, it feels like the weight of an imminent follow-up question is hanging over you, but it never drops.

"That's fine. Just don't feel like anyone is pressuring you if they offer, you know. You can always say no." Several items of clothing have made their way out of their case and onto the bed at this point, as they continue to dig around inside for--you don't know what for--toiletries, maybe, based on the small, zippered bag they finally toss out.

"Sure."

Iloya glances back at you over their shoulder, then turns to face you.

"If it's too much, and you need to get out," they murmur, their voice soft as they lay a gentle hand on your shoulder, "just let me know. Or, you can just go. I'll handle it. Is that okay?"

You meet their gaze, and the look on their face makes you feel like nothing could ever go wrong again.

"Yeah. That works."

"Okay. Good." They smile, and squeeze your shoulder, and you're smiling, too. "Come on, then, we should go back down. Everyone probably wants to meet you."

It's hard not to let some of the apprehension come creeping back in with that expectation weighing on you, as the two of you head back downstairs. You take a few deep breaths to steady yourself. You're glad you did.

Everything hits you all at once when the door swings open. The room is heavily decorated with garlands and a very overburdened-looking tree, smells of alcohol and an indeterminate selection of scented candles, and you can count at least fifteen people on first glance.

You allow Iloya to take the spotlight, initially, hanging behind while they make a show of greeting each family member personally. Most of them are older; aunts, uncles, and grandparents. A few are closer to Iloya's age. Cousins, probably, and partners of. There's one or two who could feasibly be in their early twenties. A couple of kids that you didn’t notice on your initial sweep of the room. Attentions turn to you as soon as they're done with Iloya, though you're spared any lengthy personal introductions on account of the sheer number of people there are.

(You have to commit everyone's names to your headware. No fucking way are you remembering all of them organically.)

You finally circle your way around the room to a couch with some space left, where you and Iloya just about manage to cram yourselves in beside the other occupants.

"How's work treating you?" someone (Fabian, uncle, maybe mid 50s and one of the few people not dressed in an ugly sweater or something bright enough to be spotted a mile away in pitch black darkness) asks. "No bullets lodged in inconvenient places yet?"

"Not yet." A lazy smile rests on Iloya’s lips. "I’m fine. I’ve been doing a lot of comms work lately, actually. It keeps me out of trouble."

“Really? I didn’t think that was your _thing._ ”

“Because I have to base my _whole career_ around being adept. Sure.” Iloya rolls their eyes, but there’s some gentle laughter around you. “Don’t you worry. I can still land a thirty-foot vertical and punch through kevlar, if I want to.”

“Yeah, I’m sure Aubrey can back that up for you.” You nearly choke on your cider when you realise Fabian is speaking to you, in your haste to swallow it and answer him.

“Um--” You have to pause to suppress a minor coughing fit, “--I--sure. I’ve seen them… do stuff. We’ve worked together on some jobs.” You have never once seen Iloya get close enough to punch _anyone_.

“See?” Iloya grins proudly. “One hundred percent true.” Fabian chuckles, and he looks like he could keep going--but he’s also looking at _you_.

"So, Aubrey, how long have you been there, now?"

"Like... ten months?" God, has it been that long already? "Yeah, something like that."

"Are they looking after you?" he teases, exchanging sly looks with Iloya.

"Yeah, yeah. I actually live with our co-worker Kaveh, now."

Someone else (Ade, elf, late 20s, red hair and a chiseled jaw and you tag a _dislike_ note to him for what he says next) chimes in. " _Oh._ Is that, like, a--"

"Don't be gross," Iloya spits, before he can get any further. "They're not an _item._ " So they know him. It's not the first time someone has made that assumption, and you clench your jaw, but let it slide. You've been here fifteen minutes. No lashing out, remember?

"I lost my apartment a while back," you clarify. "And I already lived with him for a while before… I, uh, had an accident--I got shot, and I needed someone to help me out for a little while."

_"Shot?"_

"Yeah. In my first month at work." There's a wave of murmured concerns and apologies. All you have to offer back is a shrug. "It's a job hazard. I lived." You leave out the part about it not being the first time.

"She's a real trooper." Iloya pulls you into a side hug. "Off the record, she made everyone else in her training group look like dogshit when she walked in. She bounced right back from that injury. She might work a little _too_ hard." They look at you with--something--fondness, maybe, in their eyes, and you have to look away. You've been told that before. You're still coming to terms with it.

 _There's no such thing as working too hard,_ says a quiet voice in your head. _You’re not reaching your full potential. You could be doing so much better, if you’d just--_

You drown out anything else it has to say under a slug of cider and tune back into the conversation at hand.

“Are you from Maine, then?” It takes you a moment, again, to register that someone--Nikki (elf, young and lanky, bicolour hair, clearly a fashionista)--is talking to you.

“Oh. No, I’m from Minnesota. I just moved out here at the start of this year.”

“Yeah, I didn’t take you for a local.” Nikki sits back and grins. “How’d you end up out here?”

“I…” You shift a little in your seat. _Easy, there._ “I was getting away from… bad family things. I could’ve gone anywhere, really. I just managed to get this job lined up here, so, here I am.”

“Mmmhm.” Nikki nods sagely. “How’s Maine treating you? Better than Minnesota?”

You almost laugh. “Yeah. _Yeah._ So much better.”

“So you’re gonna stick around?”

“...Yeah.” You lean back, observing the room around you--the decorations, the happy faces, the abundance of drinks and snacks laid out across a room set up to welcome in any visitor that crosses the threshold--and nod, taking a slow drink of your cider. “I’m not planning on going anywhere.”

It’s easier than you expected to duck any unpleasant questions. Iloya helps to deflect any that they sense are pushing at the boundaries of your comfort zone, and the novelty of having a total stranger in the house soon wears off, largely letting you fade into the background. You’re content to sit, watch, listen. This feels like some kind of weird dream state that you’re going to get shaken out of at any moment.

It’s not, and you don’t. You stay there all afternoon, until talk of dinner reminds you of your next hurdle to jump. Julia and Lucas--Iloya’s dad (elf, only a little taller than you, brown hair and a short beard, just beginning to grey)--leave the room to set the table, and ten minutes later, everyone else is rising from their seats to join them in the kitchen.

“Loya.” They stop and turn, halfway to the door, and walk back to you when you nod for them.

“What’s up?”

“I don’t think I can eat right now.”

“...Okay.” Iloya nods slowly. “Well, did you… bring anything else with you?”

“Yeah. It’s upstairs. In my bag.”

“Okay. You can go and get that, and mix something up. That’s fine.” They turn to leave again.

“But that’s not, like--I can do that? That’s okay?”

“Yes. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Because…” You falter, there, because this is another one of those things that actually sounds really, really stupid when you say it out loud. “They’re not gonna--It’s not weird, or--”

“Hey, hey.” Iloya is back at your side, a hand on your arm that you can barely feel. “Don’t panic. It’s not a big deal.”

“I’m supposed to be--”

“No, no, no. You’re not _supposed_ to be anything, except having fun.” They clap both hands on your shoulders, shaking anything else you had to say right out of you. “Nobody thinks it’s weird. People have dietary issues. It happens. Go on.” They let their hands slide from your shoulders and nod to the door. “Go get your Soylent. You can eat if you feel like you want to when the food’s in front of you, but I’m not having you go hungry if you don’t.”

You get the message. No arguments. Without a further word, you nod and slip away, upstairs, to retrieve the jar you have stashed in your bag. Iloya is hovering--waiting for you--by the kitchen door when you come back down.

“Hey.” They stop you just short of entering the room. “Are you okay?”

“...Yeah.” You breathe in, exhale deep. “I’m good.” Are you good? Maybe. It depends what happens when you walk into that room.

“Okay. Come on.” Iloya ushers you into the kitchen, where you’re greeted by a generous spread of food that’s materialised since you first arrived; bowls of salads and dips sit among plates of meats and bread rolls, with various other snacks and sides dotted about the counter.

You find that you go largely ignored--everyone else too busy loading their plates--as Iloya gives you a brief tour of the kitchen, eventually locating a suitable cup for you to mix in. When you’re done (and you’ve quietly tucked the jar away in the back of a cupboard), you quietly take a seat, and hope to God nobody notices you.

They do notice. People always notice.

"Aubrey, are you not having anything?" It's Nicolas (elf, uncle, broad-shouldered and bearded in a bright red sweater), looking across the spread at you expectantly. You resist the temptation to hide your cup away beneath the table.

"No," you answer, though it takes you a few seconds, and your voice is already faltering. "I just--I don't--"

"It's a dietary thing." Iloya cuts off your feeble attempt at a response as they drop into the seat beside you. "She has trouble eating, sometimes."

"You don't even wanna try anything?" Nicolas looks to Iloya, then back to you, that same expectancy still on his face.

"No." You shake your head, and then, as an afterthought: "Thanks, though."

"Alright. I mean, I don't think you're gonna miss out if you happen to change your mind later." Everyone's done some considerable damage to the little buffet in front of you already, but doubtless there’ll be plenty left, although the already-slim chances that you might still be down for eating some of it are dwindling.

You get asked the same question about your lack of food twice more before everyone’s heard it and is satisfied, and it makes you want to fall into a hole. So do the quips about how you’re missing out, like you don’t know that. Like it isn’t the reason you feel so shitty in the first place.

“God, leave her _alone._ ” It’s not Iloya who eventually speaks out, like you expected. It’s Julia. “Ignore them, honey,” she continues, now speaking directly to you. “If everyone was like you, they’d be a lot easier to cater for.”

Protest erupts around the table; Julia merely smiles at the chaos she’s instigated.

Everyone is too busy defending their favourite meat and arguing over the virtues of the perfect salsa to care about what you’re (not) eating after that. Julia shoots you a sly wink across the table when you make brief eye contact, and a smile creeps onto your face. It’s becoming apparent who Iloya takes after.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t relieved when people start to filter out of the house. It takes long enough, after dessert, and drinks, and you’re not the only guests staying put, but the atmosphere is significantly less suffocating with most people gone.

After relief comes tiredness. You’re _exhausted._

Iloya can tell as much, and gently suggests you take a break for a while. Your kneejerk reaction is to protest--you don’t want to miss out--but you know you need it, and you know that _they_ know you need it, and so you don’t argue. You slip away upstairs and let a hot shower wash away the aches in your bones, and get so comfy with a movie in bed afterwards that you lose track of time until Iloya knocks on the door.

“Hey, stranger.” They smile affectionately as they poke their head into the room and see you still awake, the movie projected from your drone now paused. “Are you okay?”

“Mmhm.”

“Good. Do you mind if I…”

“What?” You look up again to see that Iloya already has their shirt lifted halfway up their body. “Oh. Yeah, go ahead. We share locker rooms.”

“I know! But it feels… different, at home, you know.” Iloya laughs, but you’re barely paying attention, anyway, as they start hunting for pyjamas; you close your movie and crawl across your bed, hanging over the edge of it to dig around in your bag for your meds.

“So, what do you think so far?” You have a mouthful of water and pills when Iloya drops the question, and you throw your head back like a seagull in your haste to swallow and give them an answer.

“It’s good. It’s… yeah. Good. I’m liking it.”

“See, I told you you wouldn’t have to worry.” And they’re right, mostly. Still, you bat them away playfully when they lean over and try to kiss your head. “Oh, now you don’t need me?”

“Shut up!” The smile on your face quickly breaks into laughter. “I’m fine right now.”

“I know, I know. I’m teasing.” Iloya flashes you a grin. “Anyway, come on. You looked like you were about to pass out when I walked in.”

You can’t deny that. Before long, the lights are out and you have the heavy duvet pulled right up to your chin, hands on your stomach, head rolled to the side with your cheek on the pillow. The lights around the window’s exterior still filter in around the edges of the blackout curtains, bathing the room in a faint, golden glow.

You’re out within minutes.

***

You're doing good handling all of the socialising. Like, really good. You haven’t made yourself look stupid, or completely alienated anyone. But it’s only been 24 hours, and you’re already starting to feel smothered. The kitchen is too warm. All the noise hurts your ears. You're tired and people keep trying to pull you into conversations and all you have left for them are disinterested mumbles and they're starting to get suspicious. You can see it in their eyes.

The door back to the hallway is blocked; too many people in your way, nixing any chance of a hasty retreat to the refuge of your bedroom. The back door, though, is clear.

 _Fuck it._ You stand abruptly, and before anyone can ask questions or rope you into another discussion about a trid show you haven’t watched, you're out into the open air, pulling the door shut behind you.

It's cold. _Really_ cold, and you don't have your coat, but you couldn’t have grabbed it even if you’d thought to. The best you can do is wrap your arms around yourself and have them churn out some extra heat. The outdoor space behind the house is relatively small and mostly paved over, home to a few plants in the soil and gravel around the perimeter and an outdoor dining setup. A thick layer of snow crowns it all.

And someone else is already out here.

God fucking damnit.

  


It's one of Iloya's cousins--you know this one--Marta (tall, half-orc-elf in xir mid 30s, well-kept; probably has a cushy office job), cigarette in hand, who makes eye contact with you for a split second before you look away again. Maybe if you ignore xir hard enough--

"Hey."

_God fucking damnit._

You give xir one fleeting glance, but nothing more. Xe waits a moment for an answer, but goes on anyway when you fail to give one.

"It’s a little chilly to be out here without a jacket, isn’t it?"

"I'm fine. Thanks."

"Alright. You smoke?" Marta offers the pack of cigarettes xe slips from xir pocket, raising an eyebrow and returning it when you shake your head. "So what are you out here for, then? All the fun's happening in there."

"I... needed a breather." You settle back against the wall, staring down at the footprints your boots are leaving in the snow. A fresh layer has just settled this afternoon.

"Fair." Marta shrugs and blows a plume of smoke into the air. "It gets crazy in there. Loya said something about you not liking crowds. Why out here, though?"

"There were... too many people. By the other door." Why are you saying this. Why are you telling this to a stranger. _Why does it not feel scary._

“And without an extra layer?”

“That’s where my coat is. The hallway.”

"You couldn’t just ask them to move?"

"No."

“Why?”

“Just... _because_ .” Marta, wisely, comments no further. For a minute, neither of you speaks. It’s _so cold_ and every time the wind picks up, it whips away whatever heat you’d managed to accumulate, leaving you shivering again.

"Are you gonna be out here a while?"

You glance at Marta. "Why?"

"Because--" Marta looks down at xir half-burnt cigarette, "--I was gonna offer you my jacket, if you want it. I’m going back in, in a minute."

You stare at xir for a moment. Xe seems serious. That coat looks warm.

"I don't know how long I'm gonna be out here."

"Ah, fuck it. Just take it." Holding xir cigarette in xir mouth, Marta shrugs xir coat off and walks over to drape it around your shoulders instead. It’s two sizes too big and smells like menthol and it’s just as warm as you’d hoped.

"...Thank you."

"No problem. Just throw it back on the coat rack when you go back in. And don't steal my wallet." Xe flashes you a smile and a wink.

"I won't. I promise." You struggle to keep eye contact, still, but you smile back. This might actually be _better_ than curling up in a ball and quietly having a meltdown by yourself. "Um, Loya might come looking for me. If you could just tell them..."

"Sure."

"And tell them not to come out here, or anything. I’m fine." You sigh, tip your head back against the brick, close your eyes. "I just... need to not talk to people. Anyone. Just for, like, ten minutes."

"So I should shut up, then, huh?" _Look what you fucking did. Way to go, jackass._

"No! No, like--I--"

"It's fine, it's fine." Marta's laughing and you can't tell if it's sincere. Maybe? Maybe. Relaxed posture, easy smile, no trace of sarcasm when xe speaks. "I can back off, if you need some quiet time. It's cool."

"...Okay. But you can stay. Out here. If you want."

"Oh, don’t worry. I'm not going anywhere. They'll pitch a fit if I try and take this thing indoors." Xe tips xir cigarette. About three-quarters burnt. "You're stuck with me for a couple more minutes."

Silence falls over you after that, but it's comfortable. Marta finishes xir cigarette and gives you a parting nod on xir way back into the house, and then it's just you, and the snow, and the faint sounds of conversation behind you. You can’t even hear the traffic. The sky is the same shade of grey it has been all week, and somewhere behind the clouds, the sun is starting to sink, but the blinking lights strung around the perimeter of the house illuminate the yard; blue and yellow, red and green.

It's nice. Peaceful. You're not even scared to go back inside.

When you tire of the cold biting at your nose and ears and slink back into the kitchen, most people give you nothing more than a fleeting glance. You hang Marta’s coat back up. You reunite with Iloya, who gives you a knowing look and a brief hug. Maybe you’ll still need to go upstairs and veg out with a movie in a little while, but you're not on the brink of snapping anymore. You're good.

You've got this.

***

Christmas Eve is quiet--which is to say, nobody comes knocking on the door with (entirely unnecessary) gifts of food and drink. It’s just you, and the other resident houseguests; Lucas’ moms; Julia’s sibling, Petra, and their wife; Iloya’s cousins, Lin and Val, and Val’s boyfriend, Farid. You spend most of the day just existing together; you watch movies, you play games, you help out in the kitchen, prepping for tomorrow while Iloya’s grandmothers work around you for that evening. It’s a lot of people, still, but without being overwhelming. It’s nice.

You’ve been missing out on almost two decades of this, and you’re so fucking _angry_ that it was stolen from you that take out your growing fury at Legacy on the vegetables Julia asks you to chop. It’s not quite the satisfaction you were hoping for, but it’ll do.

Iloya’s grandmothers serve up dinner at the end of the day, and you feel obligated to at least try some of the soup and pierogi. It’s good, you assure them, and it probably is, if it tastes anything like it smells. You stay at the table long after everyone has finished eating. And they’re all just… talking. About life. Sharing stories and reminiscing. You listen intently, but bite your tongue every time you almost let slip an anecdote of your own. The ones you think you could share would still raise questions that you don’t want to have to answer. The ones you couldn’t--you don’t want to think about them.

You barely even _have_ a childhood to talk about. Legacy took it _all_ from you--and now, it serves as a reminder that they still have one hand around your ankle. That, perhaps, they always will.

It’s not fair. It’s _not fucking fair._ You look around the table at all of these faces, smiling, laughing, and think about the _normal_ lives they’ve had, surrounded by people who care, people who love them, people who would never lay a hand on them. Why did they get that, and you didn’t? What did you do wrong?

“Are you okay?”

You jump when Iloya speaks, even softly. You blink down at them and hope that the seething jealousy in your mind wasn’t making itself known on your face.

“...Yeah. I’m fine.” You nod and sip your eggnog.

“You can go to bed, if you’re tired.”

“No! No. I’m okay.” You _are_ tired, but--you look again, at all those faces. Smiling. Laughing. And you think about turning your back on it all. You could leave. Go sit upstairs, on your own. Maybe sleep. Maybe not. Let this carry on without you, either way. Probably feel shitty and cry about it.

You missed out on a lifetime of family bonding. Do you want to pass on it again, however fleeting? By _choice?_

Come on.

So you stay, and you listen to their stories. You can’t share your own, but being here for this is better than not. For a little while, you can sweep your old life away and pretend that this is all yours.

For a little while, you are happy.

By the time dishes are being cleared away, you’re half asleep propped up on the table. Iloya drags you upstairs, talk you into getting changed and taking your meds, and you manage to crawl into bed of your own volition.

This is good, what you have here. It’s good _for you._ No matter how hard your mind tries to tell you otherwise:

Right now, this is where you’re supposed to be.

***

“Aubrey.”

You open your eyes. There’s a person looming over you and you almost, _almost_ throw them aside, but your brain catches up with itself just in time to recognise Iloya’s face beaming down at you.

“What?”

“Merry Christmas!” They kiss your forehead and then bounce away from the bed, allowing you to sit up and process the fact that… nobody’s ever said that to you with any sincerity before. Fuck, it’s too early to be having an emotional crisis--you’ve been awake _ten seconds_ \--but you kind of are. Iloya, oblivious (thankfully), is busy flinging the curtains open and flicking all the fairy lights on.

“I--Yeah. Um. Merry Christmas.” Your voice wobbles; the smile on your face is shaky, but genuine. Iloya turns and cocks their head at you.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah! I’m just, like--I’ve never, um--” You’re looking for the right words, and they’re not coming to you. “I don’t know. I haven’t… had anything to be excited for, so…”

You _just_ woke up--you don’t need to start crying already, but you’re veering dangerously close. Iloya drops heavily onto your bed and pulls you into their arms. You hug right back--as tight as you can.

“Well, now you do. Hey, _hey,_ watch it with those arms.” Iloya gives a little grunt of discomfort, prompting you to relinquish your hold on them. “You forget how strong these are, sometimes, I think.”

“I know! I know. Sorry.”

“No, no, you’re fine. Come on, we should get downstairs. I’d like to get in on breakfast while there’s still food left.”

“You think _all_ of it is gonna get eaten?” Iloya stops, thoughtful, halfway through re-tying their hair.

“No. But the best of it will be. I’m not going to be the one picking at the bits nobody else wanted. Come on! Up!”

Iloya claps their hands; you laugh; a handful of pills and a comfy hoodie later, you’re in the kitchen, already a hive of activity, with the smell of fresh coffee and potato pancakes filling the air. Every new arrival into the room is greeted with enthusiasm and warm hugs. Iloya’s dad asks if you’re _sure_ you don’t want him to “jazz up” your coffee, but doesn’t push you when you decline. 

Breakfast, it seems, is not just for those of you already on the premises. The doorbell is buzzing by 9:30, and every new aunt, uncle, cousin, spouse, and everything in between is presented with a plate and told to help themselves to the perpetual stack of pancakes, bacon, eggs, and all of the bread, meats, and more that you don’t even recognise that’s on offer. Maybe Iloya had a fair point about getting down here early.

(As for you: you barely make it through a single pancake, and find yourself apologising profusely for being unable to eat any more as you start to mix a cup of Soylent, instead. Nobody minds in the slightest.)

The atmosphere in the kitchen is… _spirited,_ but the noise and crowd is a little too much for you this early, so you slip away to hide in the living room until breakfast is over. Other people start to spill over, once they’re done eating and have decided to get a headstart on drinking for the day. It’s not long before the kids start whining from the other room, and those still loitering around the breakfast buffet are ushered your way.

Watching the gift-giving session won't be so bad, you tell yourself. You've seen people exchange gifts before. Equally, you've been left out before. It's whatever. ~~It's fine.~~

It's totally not fine.

It starts out okay. It's nice, actually, seeing people sharing and caring and all that shit when, for once, it doesn't feel like it's one of the few things keeping everyone from falling apart under the pressure of a hostile world, or some tense game of power exchanges. The energy in the room is genuine; the delight real, the thanks sincere _._ And everyone here is here because they want to be. Everyone here loves everybody else around them.

Which is exactly the problem. It gets harder and harder to watch. What was heartwarming when you started is now reminding you of everything you don't have. Yeah, they let you be here. But it isn’t yours. They aren’t your family, really. Nobody brings gifts for the outsider. You understand perfectly well: you are not one of them.

By the time everyone is finished, the floor is strewn with layers of discarded wrapping paper, and you no longer want the glass of eggnog that you’ve set aside on the nearest end table. Half of your brain is acutely aware of the jovial conversation going on around you, and the other half is trying as hard as it can to dissociate. You don't know which side you're rooting for. You're so preoccupied that you don't even notice Iloya get up from beside you, or sit back down, until they deposit something in your lap, and the weight of it pulls you back into lucidity.

"One more," they say, with a smile and a wink. You look down, and in your lap is... a present. Not too big, carefully wrapped in metallic red and gold paper with a wreath pattern on it that shimmers in the light.

"For me?"

"Uh, _yeah._ What do you think I gave it to you for?"

It feels a little bit like you've just taken a blow to the chest. You pick the object up, turn it over in your hands. It's heavy for its size, but soft when you squeeze it.

"Come on! Open it." Iloya puts a hand on your shoulder and shakes you gently--encouragingly. " _Before_ the new year."

You almost can't bring yourself to do it. But you do. You just about manage to find a loose corner to pry the tape off from. It feels like the whole world has stopped around you, with no sound save for the ripping of paper as you tear it off of the gift with trembling hands.

There. It's gone. And inside...

...A sweater. You hold it up and let it unfurl from the tidy bundle it had been folded into. It's white, with red and blue stripes, and zigzags, and deer and snowflakes.

It takes about three seconds before you start to cry.

Iloya immediately pulls you into a hug, while the rest of the family laugh and coo sympathetically--you don't hear them, exactly, because you don't want to, and you wish you weren't crying in front of them, but it's a little late for that, now.

"Hey--Hey, baby, no." Iloya strokes your hair and you hug the sweater as close to your body as you physically can. "What's wrong?"

You don't answer. You can't answer. You shake your head.

"Do you want to step out for a moment?" Iloya's voice softens with the second question. You nod. They very nearly lift you up off the sofa and lead you out of the room, into the relative silence of the hallway. The door cuts off the voices in the living room as it swings shut behind you.

"Are you okay?" Iloya strokes your arm as you lean back against the staircase, still clutching the sweater with shaking hands, like it might cease to exist if you let go of it.

"You didn't have to get me this." The words tumble out of your mouth between more juddering sobs. "I--I wasn't expecting anything."

  


"What? It doesn't matter if I _had to_ or not." Iloya rolls their eyes, maybe, you're not entirely paying attention, you can’t stop staring at this stupid sweater. "What am I supposed to do, leave you out? That's not fair."

"I--I didn't get you anything."

"That's _okay._ I told you not to worry about it." You're forced to look them in the eye as they wrap their hands around yours. "Aubrey. I didn't get you this because I expected something back. I got it for you because I wanted to. I'm not holding you to a blood pact over a sweater." For a moment, you study their face, and... it's hard to stay upset when they look so adamant.

But then everything overwhelms you again. The tears come back. Iloya pulls you into a tight hug and you cling to them as hard as you dare. Are you being too trusting? Maybe. You haven't been, in the past, at least not so far--not with Kaveh--but Iloya isn't Kaveh. Maybe this is going to bite you in the ass in a week, or a month, or two. Maybe you owe them. You don't know. You don't _know_ and you can't know until it happens and that's the worst part.

How long do you have to _not know_ for before the threat you've come to expect turns out to be nonexistent?

You stop, panting for air and hoping that you’re not dripping snot onto Iloya’s bare shoulder.

Maybe you don't owe them anything for a simple act of kindness.

Maybe it's fucking Christmas, and for once in your life, you don't want to be on constant high alert.

Maybe you're going to put your sweater on and drink your goddamn eggnog and have a decent fucking time.

It takes an embarrassingly long time to put yourself back together, but you get there, and when you do, you bite the plastic tag off your sweater and throw it on before showing your face back in the living room. It might just be the comfiest thing you've ever worn.

Nobody questions your absence, other than to ask if you're okay, now, and they're satisfied with the curt nod you answer with. You help collect the deluge of wrapping paper into a big garbage bag. You slam half the nog left in your glass and take a handful of pretzels when the bowl's passed your way, even if they are so dry you can barely make it past the third one. You force them down anyway and try not to choke when someone's joke sends you into an ill-timed fit of laughter.

It’s Christmas, and you are happy.

***

You flit in and out of conversations for the rest of the day. As one of the more technologically-inclined (and less inebriated) adults in the room, you find yourself helping the kids--Iloya’s nephews, Oskar and Jesse, and their niece, Rue--bust open and assemble their new toys. By early afternoon you have them flying minidrones around the living room--and the hall, and the kitchen, until one nearly clocks their grandpa in the head, and you’re banished to the yard. When the discomfort of the cold outweighs their determination to pull off mid-air stunts, you all pile back indoors for hot cocoa and movies, bundled up together on the couch.

(You try not to think too hard about what this reminds you of. That was a pipe dream with people you always knew you’d part ways with. This is different. This is _real._ )

Dinner is easier than you expected it to be. There’s more food than you’ve ever seen in one place before in your life, and you brace yourself for the things you know are going to be texture nightmares, but you’re too caught up in conversation to notice most of it. You don’t realise how much you’ve actually eaten until plates are being cleared away--like, _eaten_ eaten--real, actual food, without fretting, without being acutely aware and having to talk yourself through the whole ordeal.

It feels good.

It knocks you for six, though. Everyone moves back to the living room for an interim before dessert, and you grumble about never wanting to leave that goddamn couch once you’re on it. Two other people laugh and concur with you, so you’re doing good. You’re saying the right things. They like you. Is it healthy to think like that? Probably not. Are you going to worry about it? No. Not right now. You’re gonna ride that validation instead.

The kids get a video game going--some generic party game setup with a holo projector--and some of the adults decide to hop in, too, despite their less-than-perfect reflexes after a few too many drinks. It’s all noise, and chaos, and when you’re invited up for a dance-off, you hesitate to accept. A tipsy Iloya pushes you up off the couch; for a fraction of a second, you feel like running.

But just a fraction.

Before you know it, you’re in the thick of it, and you _guess_ that all of that combat training--the motion, the balance, the agility--translates pretty well to dancing, because you’re hitting every move and your score is _skyrocketing._

That noise and chaos bothers you a whole lot less when you know it’s people _cheering_ for you.

By the time the song ends, you’re shaking, and you’ve worked up more of a sweat than you would usually for a few minutes of cardio--but you’re not sure you’ll ever be able to wipe this big, stupid grin off your face.

You find room, somehow, for another round of food when the desserts come out, and for the constant refills of cider and eggnog. By the time you return to the living room for trivia games, you’re tired, too full, and too brain fried to answer a single question.

And you’re so fucking glad you came here.

***

By the end of the evening, you find yourself on the couch, pinned in place by Aubrey's sleeping body. After all the excitement, she finally crashed; you let her collapse into your lap and haven't had the heart to move her. She's had a long day. She needs the rest. All of the tension you see in her when she's conscious just fell away once she dozed off. It's cliché, but she really does look peaceful when she sleeps.

  


She seems so tired all the time, you think to yourself, as you sweep a stray lock of hair from her face. You hope she’s enjoying her vacation as much as you want her to be. Some people have been a little… _forward,_ for her tastes, and you know her sensory issues have been an obstacle, but everyone has welcomed her with the open arms you knew they would. She deserves that. She deserves to feel like part of a family--one that doesn’t drive her to fleeing halfway across a continent.

Aubrey shifts slightly in your lap and lets out a quiet sigh. It almost sounds contented. Her eyelids--eye _lid,_ singular; her cybernetic eye flashes in time--flickers every once in a while, but that's the only regular sign of life. You might be here for a while.

People are in and out of rooms, muttering small talk to one another as the evening winds down, but when a shadow obscures the light behind you, you look up. Dad.

"She looks wiped out," he quips, gesturing at Aubrey with the beer bottle in his right hand.

"She is." You look down at her again. "Today's been a lot for her. And she's not used to being around people so much, you know."

"I know. She likes to disappear." Pause. "What's her story, anyway?" he asks, after a second, his voice lowered slightly. "She's very... quiet. And that’s some chrome for a 20-year-old."

"I don't know." You purse your lips. It's _half_ true. "She doesn't like to talk about it."

"Not even a little bit?"

"No. It's not my story to tell, anyway." You reach down for the bottle of cider you set down beside the couch earlier. "I'm sure she has her reasons, you know. If she wanted people to know about it, we'd know about it." Dad is quiet. You know he loves to dig into your friends’ lives and find out who they _really_ are, but he’s _also_ the one who raised you to respect people’s privacy--and he knows better than to argue.

"Do you want anything?" He opts to steer the conversation elsewhere instead. "There's still pie left, and you don't look like you're going anywhere any time soon."

"No, no, I'm fine. I'm _stuffed._ "

"Another drink?"

"No." You wave your bottle at him.

"You're missing out on games, you know."

"Then I miss out on games. Go on, get out of here." You shake your bottle in his direction again and he laughs, stepping back out of the way of any errant splashes of cider.

"Well, there's seats open, if she wakes up," he whisper-shouts back through the door as he leaves.

Aubrey does wake up, eventually. She has to, because you _really_ have to pee, and having her dead weight on top of you is _not_ helping.

“Aubrey. Baby. Hey.” You jostle her shoulder gently. Her eyes flicker, and when you lift your knees to prop her up, she reaches for the back of the couch to pull herself the rest of the way.

“Was I asleep?” she asks, rubbing at her right eye and dragging her hand down her face.

“Yeah. For a little while.” You knock back the last of your cider, and stand from the couch. Your legs ache, but you’ll live. “Sorry. I didn’t want to wake you up, but I have to use the bathroom.”

“S’fine.” She stifles a yawn as you leave the room; when you return a minute later, she’s resting against the back of the couch, curled around a cushion.

“Tired?” She nods. “Maybe we should call it a night, then.” Even the muffled voices and laughter from the kitchen reveal that only a few people are still awake, if you listen closely. “Come on. Before you pass out again. I’m not carrying you if you do.”

(You would. She probably knows that, too.)

She’s out like a light again before she can even get into her pyjamas. You opt not to wake her a second time; you pull a blanket up over her and go through your own bedtime routine as quietly as you can. There’s not even so much as a rustle from Aubrey, even when you flip the light off.

Lying there, in the dark, you smile to yourself. As far as you can tell, today was everything you wanted for her.

Mission accomplished.

***

You wake, as you have the past three days, to the lavender room that’s not your own. You spend a few minutes staring up at the ceiling, flipping through the scant few social media notifications in your feed, before you hear Iloya shift in the bed across from you, and your attention turns to them, instead. Their head rolls to the side, and one eye pries open.

“Morning.” They stifle a jawn against the back of their hand and reach for their comm on the charging pad atop the nightstand. After only checking the time, they leave it in place. “Did you sleep well? You passed right out once you hit that bed.” (You notice, now, the fact that you’re still fully-clothed, and covered with a blanket rather than tucked under the duvet.)

“Was I that out of it?”

“Apparently.” Iloya chuckles. “I didn’t want to wake you up a second time. You already fell asleep on top of me, on the couch,” they clarify, when you give them a puzzled look. Okay. Sure. Social fatigue really must be catching up with you. You remember eating more than you ever thought possible, dancing, and being really bad at trivia. Things get hazy after that.

You move to sit up, reaching for the half-empty glass of water on your nightstand--yeah, it’s been there a couple days, but if you conked out last night then you didn’t take your meds--at which point your body decides to let you know it’s going to be a pain day. Not a _terrible_ one, but you swear under your breath when you go to swing your legs off the edge of the bed and your joints ache more than you were prepared for.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, sorry. I’m fine. Just… pain stuff. It’s normal.” You wave a hand dismissively in Iloya’s direction. Your whole _body_ feels a lot more stiff than it actually proves to be, functionally, as you claw your bag towards you, hoist it up onto the bed, and whip out your pill box. Whether this is your punishment for skipping doses, the result of napping on top of Iloya or just an unfortunate coincidence is hard to say, but you keep your painkillers on-hand after stuffing the rest back in the duffel bag, just in case. Having knocked back your morning regulars, you roll back onto the bed and splay out across it. 

“Ugh. I don’t wanna get up.”

“You don’t have to.” Iloya stretches under the covers, and yawns without trying to hide it this time. “I don’t think we have anything pressing to do today. Hell, I think you’d have a good excuse to stay here even if we did. We can lie in.”

Chronic illness has its… perks. You _guess._ You give a single huff of laughter as you draw the blanket back up around yourself.

“No more relatives visiting?”

“I mean, _maybe,_ but not until the afternoon, if they know what’s good for them.” Iloya chuckles quietly to themself. There’s a short pause, then: “You looked like you were having fun yesterday.”

“I mean, _yeah_ .” You glance away, at the gap in the curtains, instead. “I… did. It _was_ fun. And--fuck, I forgot--I never said thank you. For this.” Your gaze quickly flits back to Iloya as you tug on the sweater you remember you’re still wearing. “You didn’t have to. I just… yeah. Thank you.”

Iloya looks over at you lazily, a soft smile on their lips.

“You don’t have to _thank_ me. It’s _Christmas!_ And, what, your first one? Your first real one. How could I leave you out?” They shake their head. “Nobody gets left out. Not here. Listen, you can’t taste any of the food, so getting gifts really is the best part for you. But, actually--I’ve never seen you eat like you did yesterday. And you were so good with the kids. Where did that come from?”

“I don’t know.” You shrug. You really don’t. “I just wanted to join in. And kids are easy. I used to have a sis--”

  


Oh. Oh, no.

“...terrrr.” You can practically feel the colour drain from your face. You tried so hard not to think about this. You were doing so well.

“What? Since _when?_ ” Iloya sounds intrigued, at first, but the look on your face must make it very, very obvious that this is not a topic you intended to bring up. “Is she… okay?”

“Um.” You fidget with the edge of the blanket, doing your best not to curl up into a ball in the corner and wither into a husk. You can still see Nein’s face in your mind’s eye; hear her voice with perfect clarity.

It makes your fucking skin crawl.

“I--I don’t know. I had to leave her behind, when I… left. Home.”

“...Oh.” What is that? You refuse to look at them. Is that disappointment? That--assuming your cover story was real--you should have done more? Tried harder? Would you be a bad person for not taking her with you?

 _Are_ you a bad person for not bringing her with you?

“Sorry, I… didn’t mean to make light of it, or anything, you know. Do you not have any way to contact her?”

“No.” Your mouth is dry, but you drank all the water with your meds. “I had to… I couldn’t--I didn’t want my parents to find me, so--I--”

Fuck. Goddamnit. _Fuck._ You don’t want to cry, not _again,_ but your best attempts not to aren’t good enough; you have to wipe away the welling tears from your right eye as the left one begins to sting.

“No… No, baby, come here.” You sit up reflexively as Iloya slides out from under the covers and pads over to your bed, where they sit and wrap their arm around your shoulders. You’re still trying really, _really_ hard not to make a total mess of yourself, because your week has been _so good_ so far, and the last thing you want is for this to sully the end of it. But it’s hard. It’s hard when you can remember holding her the way Iloya is holding you right now all too clearly.

 _God. Get a grip. What is_ wrong _with you? You can’t be normal for one fucking week?_

You cool down, after a few minutes of aggressively trying to think about literally anything except _her._ The worst of the burning in your left eye fades. Iloya slides their hand to your back and rubs slow circles against it.

“I’m sorry, baby.”

“S’fine. S’not your fault.” Part of you says that it’s not fine. Part of you wants to be angry. The part of you that doesn’t want to fuck up this fragile stability you’ve found for yourself is louder, even if only by way of fear. “It’s--I just--Yeah. I don’t know. I don’t like thinking about it.” That’s fucked, and you know it, and Iloya knows it, and they know that _you_ know it, but they give you the pity of not outwardly passing judgement.

“Maybe you’ll see her again, you know. When she’s older.” You have so many things you could say to that, but you verbalise none of them and settle for clenching your hands into fists and nodding. Iloya kisses your temple and rises from your bed to smooth the sheets on theirs. “Do you want to go downstairs? Get some coffee?”

“Yeah. Sure.” You kind of don’t, but it beats hanging around in awkward silence up here. “Just let me, like… get these fucking jeans off. Sleeping in these things sucks.”

Having traded your jeans for some more comfortable sweatpants (but still swaddled in your sweater), you make the trek downstairs and into a more jovial atmosphere. It’s kind of grating, but, again, better than the tense atmosphere upstairs. There’s hot coffee, and Iloya’s dad is cooking up bacon and eggs. It feels like home.

The unwelcome memories fade from your mind, eventually. Conversation provides a distraction: a pod of gigagiants have shown up in Penobscot Bay, and Lin is doing you all the honor of giving an impassioned lecture on their biology. You offer to help out with some holograms; once everyone’s over the brief revelation that your eye isn’t the outdated, makeshift piece of junk a lot of people assume it to be, you’re pulling up all kinds of videos and reference images, and the two of you have one hell of a little presentation going. At the end, Lin stands and bows theatrically to laughter and applause from the other occupants of the kitchen; when she grabs your wrist and pulls you up to do the same, you don’t even flinch.

You barely think of Nein for the rest of the day.

***

Even the most merry of occasions can’t act as a ward against _everything_ your mind has to use against you. You should have known that. (You _did._ You just wanted to believe otherwise.)

You wake, shaking and gasping, upright and to darkness. You can still feel the ice cold water pressing in on you from every angle; still hear the crashing of waves; see the debris looming over you and hear the dying groans of torn metal as it bends out of shape and descends upon you.

(Worse are the frictionless hands slipping through your grasp, the kicking, the streams of bubbles as air rushes from lungs and water floods them. There are so many of them. Too many. No matter how many you reach for, the water always carries them away.)

You sit, shivering, for a minute, staring over at Iloya. You kind of want to wake them. You kind of don’t. It’s not fair to disturb them. They don’t know how to handle this. You aren’t sure you want them to even try.

You can’t stay in this fucking room. You know that much.

Iloya doesn’t stir as you slip out of the room and down the stairs. The house is silent; you make it to the kitchen unheard, where you manage to pour a glass of water despite your shaking hands and sip from it slowly as you stare out of the window. The sky is clear tonight, and the snow glows under the moonlight. Your brain fills the silence with the hum of drones flying overhead and distant gunfire. You touched ground in places like this. You ran charges between the buildings the bombs didn’t catch, and you think about how easily you could cook up chemical grenades with what’s under the kitchen sink or rig IEDs under all the cars outside--

Stop it. Stop it stop it _stopitstopitstopit._ You’re just making it fucking worse.

You _almost_ slam your glass down on the counter as you fold, bury your face in your hands and just _cry._ You don’t want this. You don’t want any of it in your head. You wish you’d stayed and kept acting out until they slated you. It’s not like you’d have remembered the abuse you got for it, in the end. You are so _stupid._

You don’t notice that anyone else has entered the kitchen until you hear their voice.

“Are you okay?”

  


You whip around; standing before you is Iloya’s aunt--Petra’s wife--Sloane (dwarf, early 40s, short beard and long hair; some kind of technician, you don’t really remember). Ze stands in the doorway, lit by the fairy lights and bright blue holosign glowing on the wall beside hir.

“Um.” You straighten up, wipe your face down, try not to start sobbing again. It’s obvious that you’re not. Is it worth trying to pretend otherwise?

Sloane is at your side before you can decide how to answer. Ze joins you at the sink to fill the empty glass ze’s already holding, but keeps hir attention largely trained on you. You’re still sniffling pathetically when ze sets it down on the counter.

“Hey, hun. What’s wrong?”

“I. Uh.” You don’t _want_ to look at hir, but something about the way the moonlight falls on hir face draws your eyes back. “Bad dream,” you mumble, eventually. “S’fine.”

“Are you sure? You look rough.” Sloane’s brow is furrowed into a look of concern, hir voice soft, and ze knows as well as you that you can’t just walk away from this one.

Yeah, you look rough. To say you _feel_ rough would be an understatement. You choke back another sob and bring a hand back to your face to wipe at your eye with your sleeve.

“C’mon, come and sit down.” Sloane pats your arm gently and gestures towards the kitchen table. “Do you want something else to drink? Tea?”

“I don’t--I don’t wanna wake people up. Making noise.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. Nobody will hear.” Sloane is already filling two mugs with boiling water.

“I don’t wanna keep _you_ up.”

“Well, I’m already here. It doesn’t make a difference to me if I’m up one minute or one hour.”

“Did _I_ wake you up?”

“No! No, no. You’re fine. Go sit down, hun.” Reluctantly, and still feeling like a fucking embarrassment, you shuffle over to the table and drop into a chair. “Now, what have we got… black, green, mixed berry, lemon and ginger--”

“You can pick. I don’t, um-- It doesn’t make a difference to me.”

“Lemon and ginger, then.” Sloane reappears from the depths of a cabinet with two teabags in hand, drops one each into the mugs, and carries them across to the table, where ze sits down beside you and turns hir chair towards yours. “You wanna talk about that bad dream?”

“Not really.” The images cross your mind again, briefly, and you decide that even thinking about it is a step too far. You open your eyes and stare into your tea.

“It can help, sometimes.”

“I _know._ ” Don’t get snippy. Ze doesn’t know. Ze’s trying. “But talking about it doesn’t--it--” You struggle for a way to finish the sentence that doesn’t completely expose you.

“It doesn’t fix it?”

“No.”

“It’s not supposed to.”

“I did something bad.” The words just fall out of your mouth. You push your mug away and lean on the table, head back in your hands. “I did something really fucking horrible, and I hurt people I cared about, and I don’t know--how--when--if I’m allowed to stop feeling bad about it.”

The tears are just there, now, streaming down your right cheek. There’s shuffling--Sloane moving hir chair towards yours--and then hir arm is around your shoulders.

“Was it recent?”

“Three years ago.”

“How old were you?”

“Seventeen.” There’s a pause, a deep intake of breath, and then a slow sigh.

“Three years is a lot of time for things to change when you’re that young, Aubrey. We all make poor decisions at that age.” You’d laugh at how fucking absurd that is, applied to this situation, if it wouldn’t mean outing yourself. “I’m sure people have done worse.” You’ve _personally_ done worse. That’s not a great comfort.

“I just--I just want everyone to know I’m sorry. I fucked up. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I can’t say it because I don’t know where they are now, but--” The words catch in your throat, stuttering, and it only makes your chest ache that much more. “I’m _sorry._ I didn’t mean for it to--to turn out like it did.”

“I know. I know.” Sloane’s hand settles on your shoulder. “It’s been a while, Aubrey. People grow and reflect on things. Maybe they’ve made peace with it by now.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Because what you did was horrific. What you did went so, so wrong, and you should have planned for that-- _God,_ if they had just _listened_ \--but you didn’t, and you saw the way they looked at you in the weeks that followed. Whether you meant to hurt people or not doesn’t matter. The fact is: you did. And that’s on you forever.

“I…” You try for an answer, but come up blank. You try again, and again, and again. Nothing that you could reasonably tell a normal person comes out.

So, instead, you cry.

You try to keep it quiet, because you don’t want to wake anyone up and draw even more attention, but you collapse in on yourself and you’re shaking and Sloane is leaning into you, pulling you into hir, a hand drifts dangerously close to your datajack and you _smack it away_ without even thinking and you shouldn’t have done that but the hand settles back on your shoulder and ze doesn’t pull away from you.

You cry harder.

“It’s okay.” It’s not, but you want it to be--you want to believe that it is--so you say nothing. The hand on your shoulder squeezes gently. “You can’t let it eat at you forever, hun.”

“I know.” You manage to take a deep breath and lift your head. You have a case of the hiccups and definitely look like shit, even in the dark, but you try to maintain what’s left of your dignity as you drag your mug back across the table towards you and sip from it. The ginger makes your mouth tingle. “I’m just--I don’t know. I hate it. I think I’m fine, and then I have shitty dreams like this, and it feels real all over again.”

“We’ve all been there. Dreams make us relive the worst things sometimes, even if you’ve moved on. We can’t control them. And even if you’ve moved on, it can hurt! That’s normal. That’s just how brains are. Sucks to have ‘em.”

“Yeah. I know.” You give a genuine (if fragile) smile. Sloane smiles, too, and picks up hir drink, now satisfied that you’re not going to start weeping again.

“I’m sure it’ll get easier in time, Aubrey. These things tend to.”

“I know. I’m, um--” You pause to sniff and wipe your nose a bit, “--I’m trying. To get better about this stuff. And not get hung up on it all the time. It’s just… _hard._ ”

“I’m sure you’re doing a great job.” God, you needed to hear that. You didn’t realise how _badly_ you needed to hear that. It _nearly_ tips you over the edge again, but you take a big gulp of tea and a deep breath and manage to hold it together.

“Thanks. Like, really, I--thank you. For sitting here, and making tea, and everything.” You have to swallow back the lump in your throat. “You--you didn’t have to do this. You can go, if you want to. I don’t wanna keep you up all night.”

“Hey, that’s alright.” Sloane reaches over and touches your wrist gently. “I was already up, and you looked like you could use some company. This is more important than me losing a bit of sleep for one night. I hope you feel better soon.”

  
  


The two of you sit in quiet conversation until you’ve emptied your mugs. You share a hug before you retreat back upstairs, to the warmth of your bed, but you can only be distracted so far. Questions that you can’t fend off still creep to the forefront of your mind.

Would any of these people look at you the same, if they knew the truth of your life?

Would they even want to know you?

You don’t want to think about it. But it’s all you do, until you finally fall back into an unsettled, restless sleep.

***

The house is relatively quiet on the day you leave. Packing doesn’t take long, though Iloya insists on smuggling out a not-insignificant amount of alcohol after initially being denied what was left over on the basis that it was being saved for the new year.

“Drive safe,” Lucas tells you both, as you’re exchanging farewells with everyone in the hallway. “Aubrey, it was lovely to meet you.”

“Thanks. And thank you! For letting me stay.”

“It’s been our pleasure having you!” Julia draws you in for a hug, and then: “You’re welcome back any time.”

  


There’s a deep, deep ache in your chest, and it’s not because she’s hugging too tight.

You hug everyone else, too, but only Sloane gives you a knowing look--one that you return--as you straighten up and step towards the door. Everyone’s waving you off, and you don’t turn away until you absolutely have to.

The driveway is clearer than when you arrived, offering plenty of room for you to swing the rear door of the car open and toss your bag into the back seat. You take one more look at the exterior of the house, in all its festive glory.

It’s pretty.

You’re gonna miss it.

You’re gonna miss all the people in it, too.

You slide into the passenger side seat--Iloya’s had the heat on full blast again, so the interior is already roasting hot. You surreptitiously wind it down a bit before the driver side door flies open and Iloya hops in.

“Good to go?” They grin at you as they lock their seatbelt in place and kick the car into reverse.

“Yeah. I’m ready to be at home.”

“I thought you liked it!”

“I did! I did. I liked it,” you assure them hurriedly. “I just… miss my apartment, and my bed, and everything. But it was good. I had a lot of fun. I, um--” You stumble over the next part. “--I always, like--I always kind of wondered what it would be like. Getting to do this kind of stuff. Like, holiday stuff, with family. And--” You tap your fingers against one another and draw in a shaky breath. “It was kind of everything I’ve ever wanted?”

Your voice breaks at the end. You try to disguise it by clearing your throat, but Iloya is sharper than that.

“Hey. Don’t start crying on me again.” As the car stops at the intersection at the end of the road, Iloya looks over at you, a gentle smile on their face. “Look. I’m really glad, okay? That’s exactly what _I_ wanted. I wanted you to come and spend time with people who give a damn. You know, if you’ve never had a good holiday season--you deserve one. I know it got stressful sometimes, but if you enjoyed it, that’s all that really matters.”

There’s a car coming up behind you. Iloya glances both ways, then pulls out to the left. “And you deserve a real break! You work too hard and don’t relax enough, you know.” You still don’t have a response for that, so you mumble some vague, sheepish acknowledgement and turn your attention outside the car instead.

“So.” Iloya’s not done. “Are you game for next year?”

“What?”

“I mean, do you want to come again next year?” They look to you when you fail to answer. “Come on. You liked it! You got on with everyone! They liked you! And I’m pretty much guaranteed a room there, so we don’t have to find somewhere else to crash, you know.”

“No, no--I, um--” You laugh, kind of in disbelief, kind of in excitement, kind of in… relief? Let’s call it relief. “Of course I wanna come next year.”

“Good. So I don’t have to kidnap you, then.”

Both of you laugh, this time, and the smile sticks on your face as you gaze out of the window. A light snow has just started; big, thick flakes already settling on the previous snowfall and compacted ice on the sidewalks.

You found your place.

You are happy.


End file.
